“You’re right, Douglas. I’m coming in. I need tires.”
I pull in for pit and mentally imagine the commentary happening for everyone else right now between Bill and Calvin Walters, the two brothers who call every race. They’re wannabe experts and when I was a kid, I loved them. Now, I wish they would retire, or lose their voices. One or the other.
Not sure of this move, Bill. Feels risky to me.
Me too, Cal. The world had high expectations for Dustin Bridges, but it looks like he’s blowing it, yet again.
It sure does, Bill. Look at Quin go. No pitting for him. All risk, all reward.
I’m lit—thanks in part to my own hostile imagination—by the time I brake at my stop, and if I weren’t so damn thirsty I’d refuse the water being sprayed in my mouth out of spite.
The crew goes to work on the tires and Virgil keeps us apprised of every awesome thing Quin is doing while I’m on my ass.
“I swear he drives just like you,” he says at one point, and I make eyes with Tommy. Before I can let loose with a slew of angry bullshit, Tommy cuts me off.
“You have to chase. This is perfect.” He’s grinning and I want to punch him. My ribs hurt. My ass hurts. I’m probably losing a year off my life expectancy thanks to the G-forces I’m putting my brain through. And he wants me to chase.
“Got it. Chase. Thanks for the talk,” I spit out. I take one more shot of electrolytes and the car levels out, signaling that the tires are done. I race toward the pack, still a good lap up on them, two for some, and slide in just before the traffic gets thick.
“Chase, he says,” I mutter.
“That’s right. He says chase.” Tommy’s laughter fills my ears and I curse my past self for thinking it was a good idea to connect him to this system.
Kinda defeats the purpose of having someone eat my dust when I’m the one eating theirs, but maybe there’s something to his theory. I dig in and let my eyes glaze over, the road ahead becoming my playground, blurs of color merely in my way. I dodge and weave, passing people I’ve already overtaken once.
Looks like he’s going for it, Cal.
“You need to make up half a lap, and he’s going to struggle soon. Real soon,” Douglas informs me.
I somehow block out everything but his voice. He’s information. Data. I take it in and turn it into movement, my hands finding their sweet spot, ears tuned to the rpms, hand on the shifter. I climb fast, hugging the road as I kick into the turn.
The new tread grips better. I gain inches, my line better than before. I use the force to whip myself into the straightaway and strip between two cars to take over the entire stretch, roaring across it to hit the bank and sling myself into the wider turn. Quin is coming out of it the second I enter and I feel it—the chase.
Now, this is the Dustin Bridges we were all waiting for, Bill. Looks like maybe he’s finally shown up.
He’s let us down before, Cal. Let’s see if he’s got it this time.
My lungs drink in the octane, my hands grip the wheel, and my body leans. I’m no longer a man driving; I’m part of the machine. I feel it, every groove and grain in the concrete beneath the chassis. My tires hug the surface and the decibels crank up as every gear races and works harder. I’m banking, lower than before, but my line is on point, and I’m already into the next turn.
I think he’s cut Quin’s lead in half. Twenty-two laps to go. Does he have time, Cal?
I have time.
I punch through the floor and the world in front of me fades away, replaced by shades of my past. Hannah shouts my name, her voice young and innocent. My eye hurts from the bruise Colt gave me, and Tommy tells me I can put ice on it after this race. I’m in the lead. Nobody even close. My tire clips the hay and I swerve, but I control it.
My mind shifts to present. I slip in close, weaving through cars I’ve already lapped, shaving more seconds off my time. The gap is closing, and to my left isn’t hay, but the infield. I hug the line, my tire riding on it, my eyes searing through it like lasers as I gobble it up in front of me and spit it out when I’m done.
“He slipped on that turn, Dust. You gained again. Might be down to five now.”
Douglas is good at math and physics. He’s a freaking savant, actually. The man can watch any race and come within decimal points of the finishing time per lap. If he says five seconds, I’m within five.
That’s nothing.
Nineteen laps to go.
I haven’t seen anyone drive like this in years, have you, Cal?
Not since the seventies, Bill.
Not since ever. I’m the first. I’m the only. Just ask Hannah.
I blink, and my world shifts again. Suddenly, I’m in the desert, a hundred-dollar bill in my hand. It’s my sixteenth birthday, my first time racing at the Straights without sneaking out with Tommy. Hannah’s watching. Her dad gave me that money, and it’s more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. I can’t waste it.
“I don’t know.” I’m hedging, uncertain.
“He’ll take on that guy,” Hannah says, tugging the bill from my fingers and handing it to Ava. She points to some Dodge rumbling across the street. It looks fast.
Damn. I really needed that cash.
“Look at me,” she says, her hand touching my face and forcing my jaw her direction. How did she get so bold?
“There’s nobody better than you, Dustin Bridges. Never has been. Never will be. Now, go smoke his ass.”
The gold and black rear end of Quin’s car snaps me back to present. He’s right there, four car lengths. Maybe less. Five laps to go. He’s expecting the straightaway. I’m going to smoke him on the curve.
You know, I heard a story from one of the guys on Dustin Bridges’s crew, Cal. They have a saying in his family. When he passes people, they all like to chant “Eat my dust.”
Clever, Bill. Play on Dustin’s name, I guess. Well, we’ll see if they get to chant that today. He’s sure making it close.
Nothing close about it, boys. Not when I’m done.
Four laps and I’m on his tail. His head bobs, his body feeling every ridge in the road. Probably should have swapped out the tires, asshole.
My eyes zero in on the reflection in his mirror as he leans in. His visor blocks his eyes, but I know he’s looking at me. Just like he knows I’m grinning. You can have this lap, kid. I’ll get you in two.
My body is practically singing with the pavement, my bones thrumming from the roar of the engine. I’m not even sure Douglas is speaking human words in my ears. I’m not listening. I know what I need to do now, and Tommy, that motherfucker—he was right.
I need to chase.
Three laps.
If he’s going to make a move, Cal, he better make it soon.
Just like Dustin Bridges to come this close and break our hearts, Bill.
Only hearts I care about are at the finish line and in an RV about half a mile from this track. I let my eyes dim for a breath and draw in through my nose. The sweat dripping down my back and arms and cheeks doesn’t faze me. Nothing will, ever again. I drive for them. I drive because Bristol deserves a daddy she can be proud of. I drive for a better life, and to show kids like me, who have dads who make them feel small, that they can win.
Two laps. It’s time.
I purposefully waver on the straightaway. I want him to think I’m making my move. I want him on edge. I want everyone to buy in completely.